


Frizzy Hair, Dont Care

by Strawberry_Sweetheart



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy being a whiny bitch, Curly Hair Problems, M/M, Soft Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington Is a Mess, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve being his adorable self, chatty Steve Harrington
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 14:16:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20743565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Sweetheart/pseuds/Strawberry_Sweetheart
Summary: Billy's hair is a disaster that is never willing to cooperate, and he shouldn't have expected anything more from it but its date night. At least Steve loves for his curly hair 'cause he sure doesn't.





	Frizzy Hair, Dont Care

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to my Tumblr: @billy-baby  
My hair is a mess but so is Billy's. So it's okay.

Billy stared at the mirror in front of him, frantically scrunching his curls with styling cream to try to get the frizz down. It was a mess, this honey blonde mop that he called hair. It was one of those days, those days that were far too many if you ask him, where despite there being hardly any clouds, the humidity in the air caused him to look like a poodle. No amount of styling cream or oil made a dent in his mane. And he absolutely refused to defer to gel or mousse; he’d never subject himself to having crunchy wet looking hair for the rest of the night. He’s learned his lesson. Middle school was a time of experimentation and nightmares. 

“Shitshitshit…” He looked at the clock on his nightstand that blared bright red numbers at him. 6:50pm. 

If he stayed any longer he would be late to pick up Steve and Steve hates it when he’s even a minute off, will nag and bitch the whole ride in the car. Oh, but Lord have mercy on his soul if Billy ever said a word when Steve was late — which was literally always. Such a brat. He had no sense of punctuality. If he said “I’ll pick you up at 1:30” that really just meant that he’d be there around 2:00 to 2:15. Yeah, those first few dates were quite the learning curve for Billy. But he digresses.

With one last look in the mirror, committing to memory the atrocity that sat on his head, he willed himself to pick up his keys and race out the door. And If he obsessively fiddled with his hair, checking the rear view mirror every minute or so? Well… no one was there to give him shit for it.

He pulled up in the driveway and confidently strode to the house. Like a man. Because men don’t care if their hair looks like a rats nest despite using very expensive “guaranteed frizz free hair” that was now just gonna sit along with the rest of the lying bullshit products he’s bought. And no he’s not whining. Men don’t whine or “throw a hissy fit” over a bad hair day.

‘20 bucks for a bottle of snake oil.’ He lamented his wallet.

He walked through the unlocked door because it’s always unlocked no matter how many times he begs Steve to “please, for the love God, lock your doors babe.” Which Steve would only respond that nothing ever happens in Hawkins, “this isn’t the city, Billy. I don’t need to lock the doors — and if someone did break in a steal the tv or something, I’ll just buy a new one.” 

‘Just buy a new one,’ he mock his voice in his head with an exaggerated high pitch. God. Rich people sure are a different breed.

He heard movement in the kitchen and walked in on his boyfriend grazing the fridge. Is he really eating? Right before their date. Where they were going out to Eat. 

“Billy!” Steve said through a mouthful of cold leftover pasta that had been in the fridge since who knows when, face lighting up when he noticed Billy standing judgmentally by the door.

“Say anything about my hair and I’ll pummel you. Also — are you seriously eating right now?”

Steve’s eyes drifted up from Billy’s ocean blues to look at his hair with confused furrowed brows, squinting at it. “Yeah, I wanted a snack before dinner, like, pre-gaming* but with food,” he looked a bit too proud of himself, “And your hair looks the same as it always always does — why, did you do something to it?” 

Billy raised a brow. The same as always does, huh? Steve was so paying the tab tonight.

“No, forget it. Come on let’s go.” 

Steve nodded and followed Billy out to the living room, snagging a cookie from the cookie jar “to eat on the ride there, duh” as he exited the kitchen. Billy grabbed one of the umbrellas that were always stationed under the hallway mirror by the doorway. 

“It’s gonna rain,” he responded to Steve’s questioning glance.

“The news forecast said there was only, like, 10% chance of precipi… percipa… — of rain” **

“Precipitation.” He looked into the mirror at his hair that he swears has gotten frizzier since he left the house. At least it had volume. “Just trust me, Stevie.” 

Billy closed and locked the door behind him.

***

They ended up eating a fancy dinner of greasy pizza and buttery bread rolls at Nino’s pizza, a tiny family run place by 5th Avenue that served the best cheesy pizza in all of Hawkins. They got what they always got, “Just the usual, Johnny, thanks.” 

“The usual” for them consisted of bread rolls with extra garlic and a large vegetable pizza (because they were adults who eat their greens now and shit) but without onions because Billy hates onions and and made Steve refrain from eating them as well. He will 100 percent refuse to kiss Steve for the rest of the night if Steve ate them. His loving boyfriend knows this from past experiences.

_“Billy, baby, please. Just one kiss?”_

_“Stop pouting. Not until you brush your teeth.”_

_“Fine, whatever. You’re such a high maintenance bitch, Hargrove.”_

_“And you’re a needy slut, Harrington. Now get your onion breath out of my face.”_

_“Love you, too.”_

Billy was wiping his oily fingers on a napkin listening to Steve ramble on about his day. 

It had started as a story about how he locked himself in the supply closet at work, but had taken several turns since then. He explained the backstory of how he even managed that (forgot to wedge in the door-stopper), how Keith was an asshole and it was his fault (somehow), how Robin was an even bigger asshole for calling out sick (because, according to Steve, she was clearly faking it), and he even managed to squeeze in a random insert of how he saw, like, the cutest service dog he’s ever seen while he was restocking the horror section “and oh my god, Billy! What if I adopt a dog?” 

(That has been shut down when Billy reminded him that he could barely keep himself alive and had an alarm on his phone to remind him to eat because sometimes he honest to god forgot to feed himself.) 

And finally he got back to the original story. Steve’s thoughts are like trains speeding a mile a minute, twisting and weaving along multiple racks, stopping several times along their route. It was like his mind worked through thoughts too quickly and sometimes the rest of him had to play catch up.

Billy was so completely and absolutely in love. It was ridiculous, to be honest.

“... but it’s fine, I guess, ‘cause I still got paid for the 2 hours I was stuck in there and that’s like, getting paid for literally doing nothing — holy shit, is it raining?” Steve pressed his nose into the restaurant’s window, watching the first few drops fall from the cloudy sky that had somehow darkened unnoticed by them as they ate.

“You should be a weatherman, Billy. You’re practically psychic.” 

Psychic. Something like that. He winced and curled his finger around a strand of hair. “Maybe I should, pretty boy. Give the housewives something good to look at in the mornings.” Steve kicked him under the table. 

They got takeout boxes for their left overs and drove to Steve’s before the rain decided to really come down on them. They were sat cuddled on the couch, Steve’s chest pressed against his back, arm wrapped around him to make sure he didn’t fall off the edge, and his leg hiked up around his waist. Steve liked to cling like a limpet.

“Your hair smells good,” Steve buried his nose in Billy’s hair, “like coconut or something. It’s so soft…” 

Billy didn’t have enough time to warn Steve not to when his arm let him go in favor of burying it in Billy’s hair. 

“Ow! What the — Steve! Knock it off.” 

He sheepishly removes his hand that had tangled itself in his curls, pulling at it painfully when Steve ran his hand through it. He muttered an apology into his shoulder, paying for his crime in kisses along his neck. 

“It’s fine. Jesus Christ. It’s just really fucking tangled today ‘cause of the rain.” 

“Why don’t you just brush it?” 

Oh my fucking god. 

“You don’t just brush curly hair dry, Steve.”

“Why not?” 

“You just can’t. It’ll break the brush and get all,” he moved his hands in a slight gesture, “poofy. It’s a fucking hassle” 

“If it’s such a hassle then straight it. Wait. I’ve never seen you with straight hair.” 

Here it comes. Billy could feel it. He braces himself for the inevitable question.

“Have you ever straighten it? You would look so nice with straight hair.”

If he had a penny for every time someone asked him that… fuck, he’d be able to afford to leave the doors unlocked and replace TVs, too.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, focusing on controlling his breathing to try not to explode on his boyfriend. 

**Author's Note:**

> Footnotes  
*pre-gaming is when you drink before you go out to a club, party, or bar where you’re gonna drink some more and get absolutely shitfaced  
**Steve can’t say precipitation but it took me three tries and autocorrect to figure out of to correctly spell it. We’re both stupid.


End file.
